


Blackbird in the Dead of Night

by Elizabeth Wired (sendal)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Needs a Hug, Cock & Ball Torture, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Nipple Torture, Non-Consensual, Not What It Looks Like, Psychological Torture, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Triggers, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Wired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Manhattan has fallen, the Avengers dead or exiled. In the ruins of Stark Tower, only Clint Barton remains as slave and witness. But Coulson's love will see him through, if it doesn't kill him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackbird in the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark and twisted fic. Not kidding. In no way does the author endorse this kind of thing. Triggers for everything.

Clint knows that because Coulson loves him, he doesn't trust anyone but Clint with their private bathroom. Cleanliness is extremely important. Every day Clint swipes down the sinks, makes sure the white floor is spotless, rids the glass shower and Jacuzzi tub of any soap scum, and scrubs down the urinal and bidet. Even on mornings when he's exhausted from poor sleep, even at night after long days of endurance tests, Clint makes sure there's nothing about the bathroom that would upset Coulson. He takes pride in it while his fingers turn red from the cleanser and his knees ache hours spent on the hard ceramic tiles. 

Coulson prefers Clint to clean in the nude. He says it helps Clint focus on the job instead of worrying about dirtying his clothes. Sometimes he clips weighted silver bells to Clint's nipples. The pain keeps him alert. The bells jingle, bright and cheerful, in little melodies of discomfort. 

Once, after Coulson is displeased by a hair in the sink, he punishes Clint by filling him with warm soapy water and clamping on heavier weights than usual. He tells Clint to scrub down the floor with a plastic brush clenched between his teeth. Clint's bowels start spasming against the weight of the water. The nipple weights send sharp twinges through his chest right down to his dick. His mouth tastes like cleaner and the fumes water his eyes as he moves back and forth, ass in the air, head to the floor. Coulson watches from the doorway, his attention partly on Clint and partly on his tablet.

Clint has to hold himself tight to keep from fouling the floor. He tries not to whimper from the pain or effort. Eventually he loses the battle to keep the water inside him, as Coulson knew he would. The stench and foulness and shame make Clint pant. Coulson simply ushers him into the warm shower and pats his head affectionately until the worst is over. 

"Such a good little blackbird," Coulson says. "You please me very well. But there's always room for improvement."

Afterward Clint has to clean the floor all over again, but Coulson lets him use his hands. The nipple clamps stay on.

That bathroom is Clint's second least favorite place in Stark Tower. Their bedroom, with its luxurious bed and expansive view of ruined Manhattan, is his least favorite of all.

#

Coulson proves his love by working long days to ensure the city is safe for Clint and all the other people who count on his strong leadership. Each day presents dozens of problems to solve. Clint knows that he's a lesser priority than keeping order, restoring power, and feeding the soldiers who man the streets. Still, it's hard not to feel impatient or maybe even a little panicky when Coulson's left him tied all day in difficult positions on the floor or bed. The worst restraints are leather belts and steel buckles that clinch tighter when Clint struggles against them. The worst device is a steel brace on the floor that locks him into a hogtie with a metal phallus jammed into his mouth. Sometimes there's a straightjacket of heavy canvas that traps his arms around his torso, or a long leather sack that makes him feel like a mummy. He never knows, day to day, what will strike Coulson's fancy. Sometimes it's a fucking machine that pushes Clint to the brink of collapse. Sometimes it's a coffin, dark and claustrophobic.

Sometimes Coulson leaves him in a simple spread-eagle position on the bed with a vibrating dildo shoved up his ass. Of course he's blindfolded and gagged. Sometimes Coulson ties him face down, hips over a pillow, arms twisted up behind him, an anal hook tied to the headboard. Occasionally he leaves Clint on his knees and bound to one of the posters for the bed, his wrists pulled down behind him to his ankles, his nipples and cock chained to the thick post. His spine aches from the backbend and the struggle not to pull himself into more hazy red pain. He tries not to moan behind the black ball gag. He doesn't know who's watching the camera feed, and Coulson has told him that good boys are quiet unless given permission to beg or groan. 

The night restraints are much easier to bear. The chains on his wrists and ankles are thin, lightweight, and unbreakable. They keep Clint on his side of the bed with a wide degree of flexibility in case Coulson wants to fuck him. Coulson doesn't usually gag or blindfold him at night, but he wraps Clint's fists into small, useless balls with flex wrap. He doesn't want Clint to touch himself or try to pick the lock on his neck collar. He leaves Clint's mouth free in case he wants to be sucked.

The suite is soundproof, as are all the rooms in Stark Tower. Awake at night, staring at the ceiling, Clint listens to Coulson breathe and tries to ignore the cramps in his helpless fingers. The aches and bruises of the day linger in his muscles but he's used to that, like a low grade fever that never goes away. He tries to imagine what people are doing in other rooms, in other buildings, in homes where people don't need chains to hold each other tight.

A very tiny voice in his head tells him that things will get better some day. That these days of servitude, humiliation and torment will end in relief. Clint can't imagine how. He doesn't like the voice, so he shuts it out of his head. Hope is too dangerous to risk.

He reminds himself that he loves Coulson, who is brilliant and patient, demanding yet kind. And as proof of his love in return, Coulson hardly ever uses the whip anymore. He says Clint is well-trained by now and doesn’t need it.

#

Because Coulson loves him, he feeds Clint good food. Not a lot, of course. A morsel here, a morsel there. If Coulson is dining in the suite, he often lets Clint kneel beside his chair and feeds him by hand. A piece of chicken, a slice of orange, a tiny wedge of cheese. Never enough to full sate him, and he's certainly not allowed to beg for more. Coulson likes him a little hungry, a little cold. Keeps him alert, Coulson says. Clint only tried once to steal food, and for that Coulson didn't feed him for two weeks. He inflicted other punishments as well, but those bruises and cuts faded. The memory of deep, gnawing hunger has stayed with Clint much longer than any physical mark could.

Sometimes Coulson has company for dinner. Asgardians and humans that Clint wouldn't recognize even if he were permitted to look at their faces. Coulson dresses him up for those night in a steel cock ring, leather pants, stiletto boots and a lacey woman's camisole. The contrasting textures confuse Clint and keep him hyper-aware of his own skin. He spends the evening under the table, his elbows bound together behind him as he awkwardly shuffles from guest to guest, sucking them off. By the end of the night his jaw is so sore he can barely move it. Coulson sometimes allows him sips of wine to clean the sour thickness in his mouth.

After dinner Coulson and his guests move to the grand living room that overlook the city. Most of the windows have been repaired since the battle for the tower, but Coulson has left one or two boarded up as reminders. The scorch marks on the floor and smears of dried blood on the wall have also been left untouched. Curled at Coulson's feet, Clint closes his eyes and tries not to think about the Avengers, who've all been destroyed or exiled. He denies memories of the nights they'd gathered here to watch movies on Tony's ridiculously state of the art entertainment system. He refuses to think about how bright and easy the world was back then, when they had the luxury of debating which film to view, what kind of popcorn to pop, and who got to sit where. Coulson and Clint always sat together on the sofa, and sometimes played footsie under the covers.

The tiny voice of hope tells him that they never found Avengers' bodies. Somewhere out there, beyond Coulson's reach, his enemies might be gathering force and plotting their return. They'll come and free Clint and save the world and everyone will live happily ever after.

Fantasies like that are brief flashes of lightning beneath his closed eyes. Vivid and transitory. Sooner rather than later, Coulson will order him up from the floor to provide entertainment for the group, in whatever shape or form that takes. There are no Avengers to save him from their whims. 

#

Coulson proves that he loves Clint by bringing him out of the tower once or twice a month in his strolls around the city. Clint is not handcuffed or manacled. He gets to wear a coat if it's cold. He's allowed to have shoes. The only outward sign of his servitude is the choke collar and the thin silver leash that Coulson keeps loose in one hand. Coulson's always accompanied by two or three guards, and sometimes he passes the leash off to one of them when he bends to kiss a baby, pauses to talk to a shopkeeper, or otherwise engages with the citizens of his domain.

The guard that Clint dreads most is Lowis, a tall blond brute who likes to pull the chain too tight. He is handsy as well, with a special fondness for Clint's ass whenever Coulson is otherwise occupied. The wooden phallus he wears when they're outdoors is thick but bearable until Lowis tugs or twists on it. Clint must stay still, must not betray the spasm with shifting hips or wobbly knees, because although Coulson would no doubt be annoyed with Lowis, he'd be even angrier with Clint for lack of decorum.

Control and composure are important. Coulson has a special bench brought into the conference room to help Clint learn that lesson. It's padded, which is nice on Clint's stomach when he's made to kneel down and bend over it. The wooden stock mounted at the end keep his head and hands locked. The inflatable plug in his ass is attached to a small squeeze ball in his left hand. He has to frequently pump it to keep the plug inflated. A similar pump in his right hand controls the inflatable gag, which bulges out between his teeth and forces him to breathe through his air. As long as he keeps both plugs inflated to the maximum, the clips on his cock and nipples don't shock him. If either deflates too low, the shocks kick in with a series of escalating jolts. 

Coulson has a long meeting that day, and Clint is left to suffer on the bench while they discuss defense perimeters and fortifications. He does well at first, but as the hours grind on he finds his concentration slipping. The butt plug was big enough to be uncomfortable going in, and fully inflated it makes his insides feel swollen and rearranged. The gag makes him drool. Each shock makes it harder to focus on what needs to be done: pump, endure, ignore the cramps and the pool of sweat under his belly. He is wearing white silk pajamas that are deliberately too small, because Coulson likes the way they stretch across his chest and legs. Although Clint once loved the feel of silk, now he dreads the confinement and constriction. 

The meeting goes on and on. He can't understand the words anymore. His vision, unrestricted for a change, is blurry. He's making noises that he knows Coulson hates but he can't help it. All of his control is slipping. His spine hurts and his legs are twitching on their own and he feels like he's constantly choking on the thick rubber gag. He's crying and can't stop.

The tiny voice in his head says _all you have to do is survive one more minute, one more hour_ , but what or who is he surviving for? Death would be easier. He'd see his friends again, and they wouldn't hurt him.

 _Survive for me_ , say the voice. _We're coming for you._

When he's released at the end of the meeting, Clint can only crawl a few feet before his body gives out. Coulson has him carried to the Jacuzzi bath, where the hot water and steam sooth his overtaxes muscles and aching hole. Coulson helps him drink water and spoon feeds him soft foods. His hand squeezes Clint's sore cock under the water. 

"My little blackbird," Coulson says affectionately. "You did so well."

Clint can barely swallow. He closes his eyes against the dazzling white of the bathroom tiles and mumbles his genuine gratitude. 

#

One day, during a walk, Coulson stops when a young child asks for his autograph. The spring day is warm and sunny, fresh leaves on the trees, the air barely smelling like smoke. The crowds are thin and deferential. Clint is tired. The wooden plug today makes him feel constantly shoved forward, and it shifts ominously whenever he takes a step. Lowis has been leering at him all morning and hides a smirk when Coulson hands over the leash. 

A blast of noise, glass and dust shatters the morning calm. Clint is plowed to the ground by a stranger's weight and lays stunned and pinned while people scream and sirens go off. Within moments, Lowis and the other guards hustle Clint and Coulson to safety. Someone says it was a leaking gas main but a furious Coulson doesn't seem to believe them. He calls an immediate meeting of his top generals.

Later, when he's kneeling alone and unbound in the suite while waiting for Coulson, Clint finds a tiny folded piece of paper in his pocket. Someone slipped it there during the day. There's writing on it. 

He doesn't dare hide it or throw it away, so he swallows it.

He doesn't read it first.

#

Lowis comes into the bathroom one day when Clint is cleaning and presses Clint to the hard tile floor and takes what is only Coulson's to take. He's not gentle or kind about it. Clint wouldn't have told, honestly he wouldn't have, but there are bruises on his face and bleeding from his ass when Lowis is done. In retrospect, Clint wonders if he was supposed to feel angry or ashamed during the act. He only felt hollow, and so very very tired.

Clint floats on the tile after Lowis is gone, his vision blurry and his skin cold. When Coulson finds him, there's a flurry of faces and voices that Clint pays no attention to. His whole body is rising up toward the ceiling, the sky, the stars that hang cold and unfeeling in the twilight sky. He won't be tied down any more. The strange feeling blossoming in his chest is relief. Somewhere beyond the grasp of chains, he will see Natasha again, and Steve, and Tony and Bruce and Thor, and maybe even that little voice that has been his occasional lifeline or nag. 

But Coulson's doctors are very good at what they do, and they are motivated by Coulson's fury.

Clint wakes the next morning in Coulson's bed, on his slow way to healing.

"Little blackbird," Coulson says, stroking his forehead. "I'll never let you fly away from me."

#

One morning, the thought occurs to Clint that Coulson doesn't love him anymore. Lowis is gone. Fled the city, Clint overhears. He's not the only one. The number of trusted personnel around Coulson is growing fewer and fewer. The parties are grimmer. When Clint looks out a window, the skies are full of more smoke than ever. Coulson is angrier, sharper, and sometimes when he looks at Clint he seems almost suspicious.

 _He's afraid_ , the voice says. 

Clint tries to work harder. He tries to be perfect. He opens his mouth and legs wider. He moans louder, unless Coulson has told him to be silent. He arches higher under Coulson's teasing touches. He takes Coulson deeper into his throat. He scrubs the bathroom floor harder, especially over the spot where Lowis nearly fucked him to death.

It's several weeks before Coulson takes him out into public again. The number of guards is doubled. The route is swept clean of pedestrians. Coulson walks with a sharp eye and stiff shoulders, but the sky is mostly clear and the summer sun is a balm for Coulson and Clint both. Their route through Central Park is full of greenery and squirrels and although Coulson locked Clint into a stiff chastity belt, his balls bound and cock laced tight and upright against his belly, Clint isn't in too much discomfort.

Some supplicants follow on hands and knees until Coulson allows them an audience. Clint waits alongside, his head bowed, until a glint of light catches his attention and he looks, ever so briefly, at the trees. 

When they return to the tower, Coulson is furious.

"What did you see?" he demands, as Clint kneels on the floor of the grand living room, stripped nude and shivering in the icy air conditioning. 

"Nothing," Clint whispers. "I swear."

Coulson backhands him. "You're lying."

Clint can't convince him otherwise. Coulson stalks the room angrily, his long black coat brushing the floor, his boots hard on the floor. He has Clint's wrists manacled high over his head to a chain from the ceiling. He brings out the whip. As the sun sets red on the horizon, he accuses of Clint of infidelity and ingratitude and betrayal. The sharp leather cuts into Clint's back and legs and his bound cock. He can't keep silent, so Coulson gags him with a rubber phallus. When his bowels loosen and foul the floor, Coulson whips him harder.

The suite fills up with Coulson's attendants, whom he has summoned. With his generals and spies and minions. None of them help Clint, but why should they? They bear Coulson's verbal abuse and accusations, but only the bravest try to sooth him, to reassure him. 

Eventually Coulson's anger wears itself out. He sprawls in his oversize chair and has Clint lowered to the floor. With a click of his fingers, he summons Clint to his side. Clint's muscles feel like water, his torn back skin as if it might slough off his bones, his shoulders hot on fire, but he clumsily obeys. His face is swollen from blows but there's nothing wrong with his mouth once the gag is undone. 

Coulson closes his thighs on Clint's head and enjoys the sucking while he gives orders to his men for more security sweeps, better intelligence, new defenses. Clint can barely hear the words. His vision is blacking out and he can barely breathe past the bulk and thrust of Coulson's swollen cock. When the meeting breaks up there's a single loud pop, followed by a flurry of explosions and shaking and the whole world tilting out of control.

Thrown to the floor, coughing and shuddering, Clint is sure the tower is falling down. With apologies to Tony Stark, Clint won't be sad to see it go. Debris rains down on him and voices shout and then, abruptly, all goes silent but the howl of wind through newly broken windows. 

Something soft and suffocating drops on him. Clint thrashes until he realizes it's a blanket. Behind the blanket is a face from history. Steve Rogers.

"Let me do all the work," Steve says, which is almost funny. Clint couldn't do a thing for himself if he even wanted to try. Steve lifts him up like a baby and carries him toward the master bedroom. Clint thrashes weakly at that, and Steve changes course to a smaller guest room down the hall. 

The lights are mostly out; the air smells like burning plastic; dust coats everything. Steve lays Clint on the bed and Clint discovers that he can sit up after all, mostly because his back can't bear the pressure but also because he can't be so weak and vulnerable in front of Captain America. He keeps the blanket clutched around himself with numb fingers and lets Steve hold a cup of water to his mouth.

"Medics will be here in a minute," Steve says somberly. "We'll take care of you."

Clint drinks the water. It tastes like the blood in his mouth. His head is spinning and he thinks everything would be much easier if he just passed out now, or preferably died. A figure appears in the doorway behind Steve. Natasha, fierce and dirty, a long knife in her right hand. She drops the knife to the carpet and approaches the bed but doesn't try to touch Clint, which he appreciates beyond words. He can't bear gentleness or pity. He also can't look at her for more than a few seconds and so he stares at Steve's chest instead. He thinks she'll understand.

"Thor's taking him away," she says to Steve, her voice full of venom.

"I want to see," Clint says, surprising himself with his own hoarse voice. He pushes himself up to his feet and nearly collapses. The chastity belt around his waist is hidden by the blanket and it's going to hurt like hell when they see his humiliation. It hurts like hell now, but his whole body is a riot of pain and that's not going to stop him.

Steve makes a sound in protest, but Natasha takes Clint's arm and supports his side and Clint hobbles toward the circle of lights given off by the emergency lights and Tony Stark's arc reactor.

But then he stops, because Phil Coulson is standing in the kitchen area unattended. He's wearing a tactical uniform and has a cell phone to his ear and when he sees Clint, he freezes with an expression caught between shame and fury and helplessness. Clint doesn't understand. He looks past Phil to where Thor is hauling a man in a long black coat toward the front door. The man's boots click on the floor. 

Clint makes a noise. He doesn't know what he's trying to say.

Thor stops. The man in his grasp turns and gives Clint a smirk.

Loki.

"Broken blackbird," he says. "Don't fly away while I'm gone."

The end

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Were Only Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159500) by [Cristinuke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke)




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